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BBW The Great British Baking Contest (~BBW, Romance, ~~WG)

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lurkymcduck

Well-Known Member
Joined
Mar 17, 2014
Messages
63
Location
Brighton
Week Six – An Unplanned Sabbatical, Part 2

You could get fatter.

Multiple times per day, Rebecca would replay those words in her head, threading them together, pulling them apart, running them through her head like silk ribbon between her fingers. She still wasn’t quite able to believe that they were real. Had she just imagined it? Dreamed it? Was Robert even real, or just some fantasy come to life?

Then she would just go to his Instagram. See his smiling face. Click through the handful of likes from his handful of followers—Shana, glowing in portraits expertly shot by her photographer wife; Alan and George, selfies taken at unflattering angles; Willow and her militant veganism. Even Willow’s unappetising, grey-tinged photos were getting a confusingly large number of likes, especially from her former fellow contestants, until Rebecca remembered that Vegan Week was coming, and they were probably scouring her feed for advice on what—or what not—to do to win it.

She even spotted his sister. At first, the glimpse of Robert cheek-to-cheek with a young woman made her gasp, then she looked harder: at the eyes, the set of the chin and the width of the mouth. Obviously related. No reason to panic. On the contrary, Robert hadn’t been lying when he’d said that he and his sister were close. Jono’s sister had hated him, which, in the end, was really rather telling.

So Robert was real. She wasn’t imagining things. More cheese shops had popped up on his feed. She wasn’t imagining that, either. He gave no explanation for those artful little snaps--shot almost like street photography—other than one emoji: a winking face.

You could get fatter.

The weather turned. Rebecca dabbled with a bit of freelance work: remote consultancy for a YouTuber specialising in theatre makeup tutorials. She watched the rain out her window and snacked on Babybels. Finished two sharing bags of crisps over the weekend. Read a book—pulp Sci-Fi, brainless and enjoyable--with an 850g bar of Dairy Milk, rubbing milk chocolate-kissed fingers into the flesh of her stomach where her vest top was riding up. Visited the kebab shop two doors down thrice in one week. Graduated to her comfiest, largest tracksuit bottoms when she knew she wasn’t going to leave the house.

It was mindless--a sort of pleasurable, half-awake dreamland of cheese and chocolate and chips with curry sauce. It was a little lonely, though, too, and a bit directionless. She missed work. She needed a goal in mind. Something to concentrate on.

You could get fatter.

How to get fat, she typed into Google, having looked both ways to make sure no one was watching (of course no one was watching; she was sat on her sofa with her hand in the waistband of her trousers).

Did you mean “How to lose fat?” suggested Google.

“No,” Rebecca said aloud. “No, I did not.”

It was mostly articles—sarcastic little jabs at the obesity epidemic, which Rebecca had strong feelings about. (Are you treating the symptom or the disease? she thought bitterly, picking another Babybel from the red net bag). She clicked back to the results, then saw a website she thought Rachel may have been referring to when she sneered at the glasses-wearing, heavy-breathing, masturbating men of the internet. Curious, she clicked through.

She frowned as she landed on a splash page that showed a larger-than-average woman’s silhouette. It seemed objectifying, and a little bit icky.

I wonder if Robert’s on here, she thought. I hope not, she thought.

(Though she did hope, a little).

She could peruse the images and the forums without signing up, and what she saw was fascinating. She’d taken Sociology at A-level alongside Art and Photography, and a familiar fascination was flaring as she studied a selection of candid photos of fat bellies and smiling, double-chinned faces. The comments were…not what she expected. She was used to underwear adverts on Facebook inviting streams of abuse for models who dared to be bigger than a size six. She did not expect this…effusive praise of the larger form.

The forums were quieter than the image gallery, with some threads spanning back years. Blushing, still terrified that some intruder may have broken into her flat and was watching her silently through a cupboard keyhole, she bent low over her laptop and clicked Feeders.

The thread was recently necro-posted, and she didn’t have to scroll back far until she saw a familiar face: black and white, tongue lolling, adorable.

Panda.

It could have been any collie, truly, but for the fact that a similar photo, taken only a few seconds either side, was on Robert’s Instagram feed: the same flowering cherry tree took up the bulk of the background, alongside a winding grey path. The same collar, though the tag was tucked against the dog’s fur.

The username: Pandamonium.

Rebecca stared at the photo. She looked at the text without reading it. She couldn’t decide whether she was disappointed.

Or turned on.

She scrolled back, concentrated. The thread was about helping girlfriends gain weight. Pandamonium’s post was frank, and exactly what he’d told her when she’d first made him up: his girlfriend had gained weight as a side effect of his baking, and completely under her own volition, then had left him. He confided to the thread that he hoped to find someone in the future who shared his interest, though he’d take a skinny lass as long as she didn’t blame him and leave him for making her own self fat. He then block-quoted and cursed-out--in typical creative Scottish fashion--someone who was threatening to slip weight gain powder into his wife’s breakfast smoothies.

So Rachel was wrong, then, Rebecca though. Robert may have had a preference, but there was no creepiness for his good looks to forgive.

Though if he had been the one threatening to slip powder into his girlfriend’s drink, would she feel that same rage without some secret, ashamed arousal bubbling away beneath the surface? She…wasn’t sure.

You could get fatter.

Rebecca clicked through to his profile. She couldn’t see any more than the total of five posts he had made over the past six years, and his profile photo. Not active, then. She was disappointed, until she spotted Last online: yesterday.

Rebecca’s pointer hovered above the sign up button.

Can I? she thought. Could she? She knew it was him, but would anyone else? She doubted it. They weren’t allowed to be friends for six weeks yet (thank you, norovirus, for prolonging that), but he didn’t even have to know it was her. And if he did, he didn’t have to say so.

She didn’t have to say she knew it was him, either. And if he didn’t recognise her (though she had the strangest feeling that he might have been looking for her, waiting for her to appear), she could help him. She could post a photo—no face, neck down. Perhaps an outfit she wore once to work, slightly outgrown. The thought of pulling on her old slacks made her squeeze her thighs together in strange pleasure.

She clicked.

She signed up.

She closed the window with a sense of both excitement and relief.

Her search results reappeared: “how to get fat.”

She took her lip betwen her teeth and grabbed her mobile for taking notes.

That evening, she went to the supermarket. She stood in front of the row of chocolate as though she were David facing Goliath, or a lone, chubby elf readying for the incoming orc horde.

You could get fatter.

Yes, she thought. She reached for the top shelf, her shirt slipping up to her navel. Yes, I certainly could.
 

lurkymcduck

Well-Known Member
Joined
Mar 17, 2014
Messages
63
Location
Brighton
Week Six – Vegan Week, Part One

Few things could distract Shana from her work in the Baking Contest tent, but one of them was perverse sense of curiosity in other people's private affairs.

And there was something going on between Robert and Rebecca.

Of course, there had been at the beginning, and she had only been so glad to encourage it: passing around phone numbers, digging in elbows to ribs, rearranging people at the curry house when Robert—who on the outside could seem so self-confident, but who on the inside Shana thought might be a bit of a quivering puppy—failed to leave the chair next to him free for the tardy makeup artist. She caught their whispers, their exchanged, lingering smiles. Extra time spent in the makeup tent together. Rebecca hovering a bit too long over his workstation, even back when she was still on a diet.

And most of all...the fact that she definitely wasn't on a diet anymore.

Shana liked Robert (everyone liked Robert), and she really liked Rebecca. They'd bitched together when Shana complained about the filters in last year's competition turning the darker-skinned contestants yellow. Rebecca rolled her eyes over the judges' aversion to anything spicier than a korma. Shana recommended makeup brands for Black skin that Rebecca took seriously enough to write down in her notebook, and she’d brought some samples with her to production the following weekend. Shana may have even appreciated the view once or twice when she bent over.

They hadn’t talked in a few weeks, of course, since norovirus stalled production and they were no longer allowed to speak on the phone. In person, their conversation had grown a bit more reserved since The Memo was passed around (and when Will, that rhyming-slang-Jeremy Hunt, had accused Shana of cheating instead of, oh, she didn’t know, assuming that she might have owned one or two of Judy’s cookbooks). But she and Rebecca were still friendly enough, and still in close proximity enough that Shana could watch some…interesting developments.

Rebecca hadn’t been a hard-body before. Shana’s wife would have described her as ‘skinny-fat’, a particular brand of unfitness that came with minimum cardio and a lack of protein, marked by smooth, pliant skin that hugged the bones but belied no hint of real muscle beneath. She had average breasts (B-cup; Shana was very good at guessing), a stomach that went neither in nor out, and nice, high neck that sloped gracefully into narrow shoulders. Her hands were quick and slim-fingered. Her face was naturally on the rounder side, and would be no matter how much weight she lost, but it suited her and probably meant she was carded buying vanilla extract at the supermarket.

Now?

There was a new roundness to the face as she held her tongue between her lips, carefully applying eyeliner above Shana’s upper lashes. Extra flesh that hung beneath the upper arms as she swept Shana’s hair up into a plait. A new belly lipped over her jeans like a well-risen blueberry muffin, jiggling as she brushed. Her shirt rode up as she worked, revealing a little sliver of white skin and a red welt that stretched across the flesh, marked by a central indent of a button.

Shana wanted to say something. She had never been very good at holding her tongue, and it had taken every gram of self-control she had not to reach over and tweak the roll at Rebecca’s side like a child’s nose. Instead, she simply smiled, said, ‘Thank you,’ when Rebecca had finished, and walked out the door.

Robert was standing outside.

‘Well done,’ she said when she passed him.

‘For what?’ he asked.

Shana smiled. ‘You’ll see,’ she said.

*​

Robert hadn’t taken the bait. Rebecca had checked her profile just this morning, and while she’d received a handful of (admittedly weird, though flattering) comments, none of them were from Pandamonium. She clicked through to his profile. He hadn’t been on in days.

Grumpy, nervous, and still hungry after a meagre full English from her budget Airbnb, she began set-up in the production tent, trying to ignore the bits of her that jiggled as she did so. What’s the point of this? she thought. What if he doesn’t even notice? I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. What if he’s moved on? The cheese shops could have been for anyone. Maybe his sister loves a good Double Gloucester. Maybe this all was a big, fat mistake.

Her work clothes were too tight. She’d chosen the trousers to be scintillating, but only felt constricted. She regretted not having left her suitcase with her comfy clothes in the boot of her car.

‘Guessing you didn’t get the noro, either, then?’ Shana asked her as she began with the foundation, using the sponge to blend it into Shana’s hairline.

‘No,’ Rebecca replied. ‘Thank God.’ Then she realised what Shana was implying—no one with norovirus would have gained what must have been nearly a stone in the past three weeks. Her grumpiness shifted slightly, and she allowed her a smile. ‘Why do you say that?’

Shana blushed. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No reason.’

They didn’t talk business—it was all pleasantries. Hairdresser-conversation, nothing that could be misconstrued as Rebecca helping Shana ace a technical at the expense of her fellow contestants.

Then it was Robert’s turn. Rebecca sent Shana out, and her mouth went dry.

She waited a moment, heard a few muffled snippets of conversation.

Then Robert walked through the door.

It would sound stupid to think so later, but the very first thing that Rebecca noticed about him was that he was wearing a jumper. It was blue, and cabled, and quite fitted, and very flattering on the physique of a man who worked in a lumberyard. Rebecca had never realised how much she loved a good jumper before, especially when the sleeves were rolled up the forearms. When this aired, he was going to cause every shop on the high street to sell out in mere minutes.

Then she spotted his expression.

What was it? He certainly didn’t look like a man who had forgotten about her over the past three weeks. In only a moment, there was no doubt in Rebecca’s mind that those cheese shop photos had been for her.

‘Hi,’ Rebecca said.

Her body seemed to vibrate with that one word—no, not vibrate, jiggle. She could suddenly feel every swollen inch of her: her love handles spilling over the tight waistband of her trousers, her thighs pulling whiskers into the fabric, her blouse—one of her roomiest—straining across the bust. Her breasts threatening to overspill her bra. Her arms at her side brushed the round roll of her spare tyre. Her tummy—suddenly the largest part of her—felt like a statement, or a confirmation of something.

A confirmation of what? Well, they both knew the answer to that.

His reply came a moment too long in coming, as though he’d barely registered her voice. His eyes flickered to her face.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Rebecca suddenly remembered one of the first things Robert had said to her: that he was a second-choice contestant, originally shelved for not being engaging enough on screen. Was the casting director insane? Robert crammed more feeling into one glance that Will had in his entire body. They were standing seven feet away from each other, but Rebecca could practically feel his thoughts—as though in their heads they had met in the middle, and he was gently beginning to unbutton her snug blouse, or slip his fingers into her waistband to undo the straining button.

Rebecca licked her lips. ‘All right?’ she asked.

‘Eh?’ he said. He was blushing, a becoming pink spreading over his cheekbones. ‘Oh.’ He smiled. Rebecca’s knees nearly gave way. ‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Fine. Have a seat.’

He sat. She adjusted his chair. She could feel the heat radiate from his long, lanky body.

‘Important question,’ Rebecca said, trying to distract herself from the way his forearms looked, from the strength of his neck, from the way his lip was slightly shining, as though he’d just licked it…and not succeeding, not at all. ‘Aren’t you going to get too hot in that jumper?’

‘Oh.’ Robert looked down, as though he’d forgotten. How could anyone forget when they looked like that? ‘Good point.’

He pulled it off over his head. Rebecca mourned for a moment, then stopped when the T-shirt travelled with the jumper half-way, exposing a hard, flat stomach and trim waist, a dusting of dark hairs trailing from beneath his navel.

(cont. in Post 27)
 

lurkymcduck

Well-Known Member
Joined
Mar 17, 2014
Messages
63
Location
Brighton
(cont. from Post 26)

‘Better?’ she asked, trying not to breathe heavily.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

This was proving a bit awkward, if heavily erotic. Not sure what they could say that didn’t sound like flirting, they both seemed to have defaulted to saying hardly anything at all.

‘So,’ Rebecca said, ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get the noro?’

He relaxed a bit, his fingers loosening from where they held tight onto the metal arms of the makeup stool. It’s not just me, Rebecca remembered. He has to perform today. If he’s out, his dreams are over. Shamefully, she kept forgetting what was on the line for him. Contestants who finished in the middle didn’t get book deals, didn’t get to open bakeries and attract custom based on fame alone. He needed to get to the final—not an easy feat for a straight guy, judging by past series.

Robert was nervous, and she wasn’t sure she was helping. Maybe a distraction helped him perform better? She didn’t know.

He smiled. ‘No, thank fuck. You?’

His eyes settled on her stomach. He knew she hadn’t.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have a stomach like a steel trap. Once something’s down, it will never escape.’

He laughed, then quieted. Too chummy. She reined herself in.

God, I miss you, she thought, rubbing foundation into the skin beneath his ears, brushing the puckering of his scars.

‘Stop me if this is too personal a question,’ Rebecca said, remembering the many, many personal questions they had asked each other in that blissful week of texts and phone calls: their families, their backgrounds and old relationships, religion (Robert: Agnostic, though dabbled in Buddhist meditation when the rural Scottish lifestyle proved too fast-paced; Rebecca: Easter-and-Christmas Methodist), and the correct order of jam and cream on a scone.

‘Fuck,’ he’d said, laughing, ‘you English would fight a war over your ruddy scones. As long as there’s cream on it, who the fuck cares?’

‘Right answer,’ Rebecca had replied. ‘But plain scone or fruit scone?’

He’d answered immediately: ‘Fruit. I’m not a monster.’

He shuddered as she blended concealer in with her fingers.

‘Shoot,’ he said.

‘How did you get these scars? I mean, I know the broken bottle bit, but not the rest.’

He laughed, instantly relaxing. ‘Steady on! Buy me a ring first.’

Her face turned hot.

‘Is it that personal?’ she said.

‘A story I’ll take to the grave,’ he said. ‘Or at least Week Seven. I need to maintain some air of mystery, otherwise I’ll just be some bloke from Scotland who works with wood.’

‘Tease,’ she said. She stopped. Too much. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You’re done.’

‘Already?’

If you’re in here any longer I’m going to jump your bones, and then we’ll both have to go home.

‘I’m a quick worker,’ she said. ‘And you don’t need much work.’

She popped her brushes into the steriliser. Robert seemed hesitant to move from the stool. His clenched hand was a mere inch away from the soft jut of her hip. They both looked at his fingers, as though they were both waiting to see what they might do.

Robert cleared his throat and released the armrest. ‘Vegan week,’ he said. ‘Christ.’

‘Well, we need to make up for all that dairy from Cheese Week somehow,’ Rebecca said. ‘We’ve probably drained the cows dry.’

‘True,’ he relented, smiling again. ‘Well, cheers for your help.’

Rebecca smiled back, a little sad. ‘Break a leg.’

‘That would be handy, wouldn’t it?’ Robert said. His smile widened. His blue eyes glowed. ‘I could use the sympathy vote.’

#​

Rebecca shouldn’t have had favourites, but that was clearly never going to happen. Robert was obviously first on her list, closely followed by Shana. With Odette, Alan, and George, they were the only ones left, and Shana and Robert were running out of people to do worse than them.

While Shana excelled—thanks to her vegetarian wife--Robert only did OK, getting a ‘passable’ judgement on his chocolate cake and coming third out of five with his aquafaba meringues (they seemed fine to Rebecca—she grabbed a can of squirty cream from the fridge and ate three). She wished she could hug him and promise him that tomorrow would be better. She hoped he knew.

‘Pub?’ Will said to her after production had wrapped for the day.

Rebecca bristled, not wanting to do anything he suggested. But she was starving, and as long as she was sat far away from Will and with Patrice from set design, the evening might even be bearable.

‘Company paying?’ she asked, with a smile to take the edge off.

‘Sure,’ he said. His eyes settled on her belly like he didn’t have one of his own. ‘Might need to cut you off at some point.’

Rebecca smiled wanly, as though she didn’t know what he was implying.

I’ll take that as a challenge.
 

Ssaylleb

Well-Known Member
Joined
May 12, 2007
Messages
242
Location
Europe
So glad to see this continued! Amazing writing, i love the story build up & character development.
 

Mystic Rain

Mewtwo is life
Joined
Dec 29, 2005
Messages
226
Location
GA
I admit, I read more fanfiction than I do WG fiction, but you are an amazingly skilled and talented writer. I honestly thought I was reading fanfic. Each and every one of your stories has elaborately detailed scenes, a well structured plotline, and engaging characters, who are real and relatable. The humor and emotions throughout are clearly on point. I also must commend you for showing the main men characters to cry or even think they will. That's a real man right there.

I hope you will update this one again soon, and continue to write stories as poetic as the ones you already have.
 

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